


like you would

by tanyart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (not quite), Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Recall, Sensory Deprivation, Solo Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: McCree tries to fix Genji's broken helmet.





	like you would

 

The new Overwatch base is a lonely place when empty, but McCree relishes the quiet for now. Solitude has become an old friend to him, and with Recall initiated it’s getting to be a rare commodity these days. A part of him still can’t believe he’s come out of hiding for this, and another part wonders what still holds him back.

Genji’s broken helmet sits at the communal kitchen, scuffed and dented, where McCree had left it for the time being. He eats a bowl of leftover soup while staring sullenly down at his tablet, scrolling through schematics that are too detailed for him to parse.

There’s no one else at the base aside from McCree. Everyone’s off on their own individual missions—Winston and Lena are somewhere in England, chasing a Talon lead, and Soldier: 76 is doing his own thing with Ana, whatever that might be. As for Genji—technically Genji is supposed to be here minding the base with McCree, recovering from their last mission together.

But Genji had made some wistful comment about wanting to see Zenyatta again, and McCree isn’t one to stop him. It’s been a week since Genji had left, dropping his broken helmet into McCree’s lap and then a fond nudge good-bye.

“Perhaps you can fix it,” Genji had said before leaving. He wears one of his older masks, one of the prototypes from his days back in Blackwatch. It shows the crinkle in his eyes when he grins.

“Doubt it. Looks like a job for Angela or Winston,” McCree had replied, giving the helmet a dubious look. Both Winston and Angela aren’t available and won’t be for another month, if they decide to return. He glances at Genji, half-tempted to say he prefers the old mask. It doesn’t cover Genji’s eyes.

But he lets Genji leave, and sets aside the broken helmet to figure out later.

McCree finishes his dinner. He doesn’t finish reading the schematics. It’s his third attempt, and all the online tutorials and dictionaries in the world aren’t going to help at this point. He clears the kitchen before he heads out, grabbing Genji’s rattling helmet from the table as he does.

The barracks is a good enough workplace as any. McCree’s modest toolset on his cot looks highly inadequate to the task, but Genji’s helmet is in his lap and the constant tinkering is a nice distraction from idleness. He’s sure he can’t make it any _more_ broken.

It _looks_ better though. McCree had spent a couple of hours on the cosmetics some days ago, smoothing out the darker scratches and cleaning off the dust and blood. There’s nothing he can really do about the dents. McCree runs his thumb over the imperfect grooves and down the edged curves. _Genji can find a way to fix that his damn self_ , he thinks, exasperated despite the smile that sneaks its way to his face.

The problem looks to be more electrical than mechanical. Genji had smashed his face into some flying debris during their last mission, blown back by a small explosion that caught them both off guard. McCree hadn’t even known Genji was injured until afterwards, when Genji had pulled off the helmet, bruised and bloodied from his forehead to his chin, offhandedly making a comment about being unable to see through his visor.

A few wires poke through, nudged by McCree’s set of pliers. He pauses, seeing a flash of circuity from inside the helmet. Dismantling the pieces would an easy thing to do. He’s done it before, enough times that he can map out the clasps and ports in the dark when Genji drags him down for a kiss or something more.

McCree rubs his forehead. He leaves the helmet intact for now, reaching for the bedside table to pull out a pack of cigarillos and his lighter. He sits back, frowning when his back twinges and shoulders ache from being hunched over for so long. The cigarillo slides to one side of his mouth as he blows the smoke out from his lungs. He cranes his neck upwards, contemplating the plated ceiling for a moment. The helmet is a hopeless cause on his end. There really isn’t anymore he can do.

McCree lets out a disatisfied grunt. The repairs are beyond his technical knowledge, more complicated that his prosthetic arm a hundred times over. He takes another drag from the cigarillo, minding the helmet, and flicks the ash away from his cot. The helmet shifts in his lap, lopsided, the bend of his knee catching a wire and pulling it with a notable pop that causes McCree to hastily put the cigarillo back between his lips and take the helmet in both hands, upturning it to peer inside.

“Damn,” he says.

The wire dangles in front of his face, snapped and frayed. McCree sighs. He takes the cigarillo from his mouth to crush it out and put it aside. So much for giving up. It’s back to the pliers, then.

Replacing the wire is simple stuff, metal hand steady enough to twine it through the right places. McCree ponders over the placement of the circuits for a while but the schematics he had looked over seem to click in his brain. He presses the wire in place, and the visor blinks on, pulling a quiet but triumphant _‘aha’_ from McCree.

He holds the helmet up, grinning. Genji’s visor glows a familiar green, though McCree can already hear the static sounding from inside. At first, he thinks it might be crackles from unstable electricity, but McCree turns the helmet over in his hands again.

After a moment, he slides the helmet over his head to see.

It’s not really like putting on a motorcycle helmet, or a pilot’s helmet, or any other number of masks McCree has put on before. The fit is wrong, obviously tailored to Genji’s facial proportions. McCree’s hair bunches around his ears, beard scratching against the inside of the helmet and rubbing into his own skin. He can’t breathe properly either, breath knocking back and making the inside feel stuffy and unpleasant. He wonders if Genji has trouble breathing like this, or if there’s some function of the helmet that needs to be reconnected to allow more air. Or that maybe he only needs to cut back on smoking.

McCree sits up again, unable to help but glance around the room. The visor allows him to see just fine, though there’s some strange overlay of colors that tinge the barracks green and blue. It’s almost pretty—more strange to McCree’s affected eyes.

The stuffiness of the helmet is wearing off, whether through some kind of vent reworking itself or McCree’s calm settling as he leans back on his hands, easing into the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling once more, unbothered as static plays into his ears. It’s a nice change from the dead silence of the base, though he knows he will not be able to stand the white noise for too long, cautious as he is.

The inside of Genji’s helmet smells faintly of sweat and whatever hair product Genji uses. McCree feels the back of his neck prickle, a little mortified to discover that he can picture the brand of spray and even the tiny bottle of cologne Genji sometimes indulges in. The memory makes him lick his lips in nervous habit, but even that is a mistake. His tongue briefly swipes against the warmed metal, and then McCree is hopelessly wondering if Genji kisses the inside of his faceplate each time McCree leans in to press his lips over where Genji’s mouth would be.

His breathing is getting louder than the static. McCree’s forearm goes up to rest over his forehead, metal bumping against metal. The helmet pushes down into his face against the weight of his arm. When he drags his hand lower to where his mouth is, the faceplate barely touches his mouth.

And when McCree applies a slight pressure—just two fingers over the front mouth guard—it does. The metal plate presses against his lips, still warm and wet from when he had licked it on accident.

He thinks, maybe, this is information that he isn’t going to forget any time soon. Or ever.

“Damn,” he mutters, hand still over his mouth, over the faceplate. His voice echoes louder in his ears, and he hadn’t even considered how Genji might sound, low and reverberating all around, and how much McCree wants to hear it for himself.

His own voice doesn't sound so bad, and McCree can attest to it, slipping his hand beneath the hem of his jeans and under his shirt. The cot dips under his shifting weight, fingers playing over a couple of buttons, pulling them undone. Genji would tease him like this, take him apart so slowly that he has McCree scrambling and desperate—or maybe he has done the same to Genji, some time before.

The helmet is stifling from McCree’s breath bouncing back. He can feel his hair sticking to his face, gone damp from his sweat and heat rising to his face. At first, it’s dizzying and hot. His hand dips lower across his thigh, jeans sliding down as he shifts his legs and angles his hips. And then, it’s constricting—though not in a way McCree finds unpleasant. He sucks in a breath, blinking up at the ceiling, and quickly pulls the helmet off, breathless.

He sits up, raking his matted hair back with his good hand. The outside air hits him, and it’s a huge relief, cooling his burning face. McCree’s hand curls into his hair, tugging it ruefully. He sighs, head hanging between his drawn up knees to regain his composure.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, staring at all his tools, knocked all around. Most have fallen to the floor.

McCree gently rolls the rest off the cot, clearing the bedding, and rubs his temples. The back of his neck still prickles, though the coiled heat in his chest eases into something more manageable. He gives Genji’s helmet a half-hearted fling next to him, causing it to bounce once on the mattress before pressing his head into his pillow, face down to attempt some kind of suffocation and a quick death from embarrassment.

When he turns his head, Genji’s helmet rolls closer, bumping against his face. And then McCree is back to wondering all over again.

“Shit,” he repeats, resigned, and shuts his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, did you fix it?” Genji asks, taking the helmet from the table before McCree can stop him.

McCree makes a disgruntled noise, sitting at the edge of Genji’s cot. “Nah. Couldn’t figure it out. Got the green bit to blink though.”

Genji unclasps his old prototype mask, handing it to McCree. His smile is crooked. “I appreciate the effort.”

McCree looks down at the prototype, turning it in his hands. The underside is still warm from Genji’s skin. He sets it aside. “Well, it gave me something to do. Would’ve gotten bored outta my mind without it.”

Genji laughs, inspecting the broken helmet. He stands close to McCree, hip bumping his shoulder. McCree hooks his arm around Genji’s waist and he leans in, comfortable and more than a little happy to have Genji back from his trip.

“You cleaned it,” Genji comments, sounding pleased. He puts the helmet on, and McCree peers up at him, watching as Genji turns his head to look around and try to activate whatever system that powers it. “Ah yes. Still broken, I’m afraid.”

McCree feels Genji pause for a second, hand just inches away from ruffling his hair. Instead, it comes down to rest over the back of McCree’s neck.

“You’ve worn it,” Genji says, looking down at him. “I can smell the smoke.”

The heat rises to McCree’s face. He tilts his head, forehead bumping against Genji’s hip to hide his expression, hoping to pass it for teasing affection. “Just to see if my fiddling worked.”

Genji stares at him. “I see.”

There’s no point in keeping the helmet on now, but the faceplace stays put—and McCree knows Genji must have some inkling of just how much he had been missed. McCree lets go of Genji, throwing himself back on the cot in exasperation.

“Heh,” Genji says, smug.

“Ugh,” McCree replies, burying his face into his both his hands.

But Genji grabs both his wrists, pulling them away from his face. He leans in, head angling in a way that McCree can see exactly what Genji wants from him.

So maybe it’s win at least, when he presses his mouth to Genji’s faceplate, he knows Genji is kissing him back.


End file.
